Left Behind
by LaLuna
Summary: After crossing the Lake, Meg makes it into the Phantom's Lair, with the Mob close behind, only to be confronted by the Opera Ghost himself. She gains more than she came for, however. My first fanfic! Send feedback, thanks!


Left Behind  
  
Note: None of these characters are mine! They belong to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, the  
RUG, and anyone or anything else associated with "POTO." Just thought I'd get that out of the way.  
You never know about these things.....  
  
  
  
Meg gasped as she flung herself onto the cold, muddy ground of the Phantom's Lair, beneath  
the Paris Opera house. The Lake had been bone-chillingly cold. Her lips were blue, and her pale  
skin gleamed wet in the eerie candlelight of the labyrinth. She could just barely hear the angry  
shouts and cries of the Mob advancing towards the Lake, however, she knew they were coming just  
the same. Christine had disappeared from the stage during the final scene of "Don Juan..." but by  
now there was no secret anymore. Everybody knew it was the Opera Ghost who had stolen her away  
during that fatal moment of blackness, and nobody was going to allow him to slip between their  
fingers, as he had so many times before. Meg's throat hurt from screaming. She was still a child,  
and things still frightened her, though she did think that seeing a cadavor hanging from above  
one's head would make any person cry out, if not faint. Poor Piangi! Yet one more victim to fall to  
the wicked hands of the Phantom! Meg swore she would not allow another to take on a similar   
fate . She had to find Christine and, perhaps even Raoul, who undoubtably went after Christine  
the moment she disappeared. Cautiously stepping through the open, iron gate that led into the home  
of the madman, Meg looked around, her lower lip trembling. 'I cannot start crying,' she thought,  
trying to be brave. 'I must find Christine! I can't let him kill her!' She could hear the angry  
chants and shouts of the Mob coming down through the passageways. it was only a matter of time  
before they would be here, and Meg was sure they would not let the Ghost go free. Summoning her  
courage, Meg was about to speak, when something caught her eye. Across the room, placed delicately  
on an intricate, yet somehow frighteningly dark throne, was a mask. The mask. Meg had seen it only  
briefly from the back of the stage, before Christine had torn it from his face, but it had been long  
enough for her to be able to recognize it. Slowly and carefully, her eyes transfixed on the throne,  
Meg walked towards it. She couldn't look away, couldn't even blink. It was as if it were the  
Ghost's eyes staring at her through the holes in the mask, luring her towards him, hypnotizing  
her. Picking it up in her tiny hand, she studied it with quiet curiosity. She ran her fingers  
over the smooth porceline, touching its curves and crevices. What must it have been liek for him  
to have worn this for who knows how long? Since he was a child? When he came to the Opera? All of  
his life? How horrible to be imprisoned in a mask for all eternity, because your own face is too  
horrible to be seen by the outside world. Meg had never thought of herself as a terribly pretty  
girl, but never had she imagined someone so ugly it was frightening to look at them. A small  
pang of guilt shot through her heart , and she almost felt sorry for the Ghost. Suddenly, Meg  
realized, all too late, that the mask was still slightly warm. She dropped it back onto the seat,  
and gave a small cry, as faint footsteps began to approach her in the darkness. "Wh-who's there?"  
she stammered, making one, last feeble attempt to be brave. "What d-do you want? Christine...?"  
her voice trailed off, as a black, cloaked figure emerged from the darkness. A cape totally  
enveloped his body, and a black fedora was tilted atop his head, making him hardly visable in the  
darkness. The Opera Ghost! Meg tryed to scream, but no sound came out. She went pale, and   
gripped the arm of the throne for support.   
"Looking for Christine, Little Giry?" the Ghost said, in a voice so soft it was barely audible,  
yet so beautiful Meg almost forgot her fear. She nodded ever so slightly, and tried to stand up  
straight, but her knees were wobbling with fright. "Why?" 'Why?' the question seemed so simple,  
so harmless, but the way the Ghost said it would stike fear in the heart of any man. It was so  
simple, yet, so threatening.   
"I-I came t-to find out what h-had happened to her, Monsieur. She d-disappeared from the  
stage...." Meg's voice trailed off, pitifully. The Ghost laughed, softly, and came another step  
closer. She closed her eyes, briefly.   
"Yes," said the Phantom, a little louder. "I am well aware of Miss Daae's disappearence.  
It was I, after all, who arranged it." Meg nodded. This much she knew. But where was Christine?  
"What have you done with h-her, then?" Meg demanded, weakly. The Ghost walked around the  
throne, and said, coldly, "I have done nothing with Christine Daae." Did she detect a hint of  
resentment in his voice? Perhaps even hurt? Had Meg hurt him with her questions? But how? If   
anything, it was he who had hurt people. He gently picked up the mask with a white gloved hand,  
and fingered it gently, as Meg had only a few moments ago. She suddenly realized that it was not  
on his face, therefore, his deformity was exposed. Had she missed it? Of course not, Meg's   
curious eyes would never miss something lke that. Her gaze shifted to the Ghost's face, and she  
realized with slight relief that his black hat was pulled down low, over the scars, and hidden  
in darkness. "What about the Vicomte, then? Have you done anything with him? Is he here?" Meg's  
wide eyes scanned the darkness in vain, looking for some sign of Raoul. There was none.   
"Have I killed him, you mean?" the Ghost's voice was silky, yet Meg thought she could  
almost detect a hint of amusement within it. She could think of nothing particularly funny  
about this whole event. When she didn't answer, he continued. "No, Little Giry, I did not kill  
him. I did not kill either of them." He stepped even closer to her, so that she could feel his  
presence behind her. Meg was shaking so hard now , that she didn't know how her legs could   
support her. She feared she would faint any moment . His voice was barely a whisper in her ear,  
but she heard evey word he said, as if he were shouting them. "I could kill you right now ,  
however." The air was deathly still, cold. The numerous candles were flickering in some unknown  
wind, and Meg shivered. She was going to die. She knew it. She could feel Death's icy cold hands  
on her arms. Her wet, clinging ballet costuem suddenly felt invisable. Meg gasped, and instantly  
realized that it was not Death's hands touching her, but the Phantom's. Though they were ice, they  
possessed a delicate, flowing motion that Meg had never felt in anyone before. She closed her   
eyes and stuggled to breath. Had the Ghost ever touched Christine this way? Had Christine ever  
noticed the strange feeling to his grasp before, too? His grip suddenly tightened, and his  
voice hissed in her ear once more, dangerous this time , threatening. "Aren't you afraid? You  
should be, Madamoiselle. Everyone is afraid of the Opera Ghost." He released her, almost flinging  
her to the other side of the throne. She gazed into his eyes, seeing them for the first time.  
THey glowed almost, with a certain fierceness. But, almost immediately, the eyes changed, and were  
replaced with a sad, remorseful glint. He looked away, and said, softly, "Even Christine."  
A knife of sadness sliced through her heart , and Meg half-wondered if he would cry. How strange  
and almost frightening it would be to sit and watch a Ghost cry. Except he was not a ghost; he  
was a man, and it was clear now that he was a man who was in love with Christine. So the rumors  
were true . The silly, little giggling whiperes of the Ballet Girls were as accurate as Meg's  
fear. Christine Daae, the beautiful Soprano of the Paris Opera House, had won the affections of  
a monster. A killing Madman. No wonder she had often seemed so lost and confused, and so   
frightened!   
"She had believed I was her Angel," the Phantom was whispering, gently. "Her Angel of  
Music," they said, in unison. He looked up at her, with almost shock in his eyes. "She spoke of  
her dead father often, Monsieur, and how he always p-promised to send her th-th Angel of Music  
after he died. I had always belived it was a fairy tale." He nodded.  
"A fairy tale that was perfect....until I shattered it." he fingered the mask once again .  
"No more." he said, with defeat. "No more." What did he mean by 'No more?' Was he making a threat?  
Was he planning on killing himself? Or, even more horrifying, Meg? Perhaps both of them, right  
there, before the Mob could arrive to rescue her. Oh, why had she come down here alone? Why?   
'Oh, Christine!' Meg thought, in despair. 'Whatever has become of you, I am sorry! I tried to  
save you! I am such a foolhardy girl, and a terrible friend!'   
"Do you know how long I have been living down here? Do you know how long I have been  
living at all?" His voice was flat, as if he had given up on that, too. Meg gulped, and shook her  
head. He didn't seem to notice, as if he weren't expecting an answer. "Since long before you  
were born, Little Giry. Your mother knows." Maman? Maman knew? Meg had always known that her  
mother was somehow connected with the Ghost, but she never asked. She didn't feel it was her place  
to ask, and her mother never enjoyed speaking of the subject, anyway. "Your mother knows how  
long I've been wearing this mask, too, Madamoiselle. Do you want to know?" Meg was unsure of  
how to respond to this odd question, so she said nothing. Again, the Phantom did not seem to care  
"My whole life ." he whispered, hoarsley. "Since the day I was born. My own mother couldn't even  
bear to look at my face. My own mother." He bit off each word, as if each one were a knife going  
into him. And perhaps it was. " I thought," he continued, "That perhaps I could keep Christine,  
if I were to prevent her from seeing it. But my Pandora, my beautiful little Pandora..." his  
voice trailed of as he stoked the mask. "Her curiosity got the better of her." He stared back   
into Meg's eyes, wistfully, as if he were opening a door to his soul. "I could no longer allow  
my little songbird to live on my windowsill, to come and go as she pleased. I had to put her in  
a cage, so she would never escape." He laughed, very softly. It seemed as though it were quite  
the wrong time to laugh, but maybe there was somthing amusing to this story, which Meg could   
neither see, nor comprehend. "But I soon found I could not do that, either. A bird can't sing as  
beautifully in a cage, as it might outside one. My Christine.....must have the chance to fly."  
He stepped forward, ever so slightly, and, surprisingly, Meg was not afraid. She was now only  
deeply curious about the life of this man. If she were to get out of this alive, she would finally  
ask Maman about him. "And so I gave it to her." The Phantom finished his story the way a composer  
might finish a composition. His voice flowed, and halted into a whispering cry of depair. Still  
clutching the mask, he walked towards her, holding it out in front of him. "You are her friend,  
Madamoiselle Giry? You care for her?" Meg finally found her voice, and replied, softly, "Yes,  
Monsieur. Yes." His misty eyes now looked as though they were filled with memories, so many  
memories, that Meg could not begin to comprehend the depth and multitude of his tragic life. They  
penetrated her's, as he whispered his last request of her ," Then, please, make sure that she is  
always happy . Make sure that she has the chance to fly. Take care of my songbird, Little Giry."  
He pressed the mask into Meg's small palm, never loosing her gaze. As Meg stared into the strength  
of his eyes, she could finally see everything. The hurting and depair, the horrible childhood  
which lacked love and comfort. The savage and strange days in Persia, the final, lonely retreat  
to the cellars of the Paris Opera House, and the miserable, black bitterness which was caked   
around his heart . It was all there, inside his eyes; inside his soul. Meg finally saw the man,  
not the ghost, who was the Phantom of the Opera .  
A loud crashing sound and frightening shouts and cries echoed across the Lake into the  
Lair. They were here. Meg knew it. He knew it, too. She tucked the white mask into the damp,   
flimsey shawl she had worn for her journey down below. She wanted to say some words of comfort  
or perhaps hope to him, but the moment had passed, and the Mob was advancing.   
"Out the door. The third left." she followed his pointing finger to a small door in the  
side of the wall. "It will return you to the streets." Meg started to go, seeing nothing else she  
could do. She was a small girl who only just realized the tragedy that was the Phantom, and she  
could do nothing to save him. They wouldn't understand. They couldn't, not when they were so   
blind with rage. Suddenly, she stopped, and turned. The Ghost had seated himself at his organ. Meg  
acknowledged it for the first time . He didn't play it. He simply stared at the music which sat  
upon the stand, and caressed the old keys. Sensing her presence, he turned his ruined face to  
her, with a look in his eyes that Meg couldn't quite read. She curtsied to him, and said, softly,  
"Monsieur le Fantome ," and left. 


End file.
